


Perfectly Marvelous

by tiffgeorgina



Category: Black Monday (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Closeted Character, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Song: Perfectly Marvelous (Cabaret), blair and roger just on a date and shit, blair is a theater nerd but we knew that, i lied about some real life things like the actual 1987 revival of cabaret, second time typing these tags bc im a fool and this is my first ao3 publication omg!!, they are in love fuck off showtime, this is my magnum opus after two years of near constant brainrot, this is social media where i go to lie and joke, you ever think about how we've done more for blarris than showtime ever did.jpg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:14:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiffgeorgina/pseuds/tiffgeorgina
Summary: In which Blair and Roger aren't quite living together, but they are definitely having a marvelous time.
Relationships: Roger Harris & Blair Pfaff, Roger Harris/Blair Pfaff
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Perfectly Marvelous

**Author's Note:**

> heyy guys it's indigo and i'm finally contributing to this fandom!! i've had this little idea kicking around in my head for a while but i wouldn't have been able to finally write this if not for linden (twitter user @chiidofearth). love you to death my ultimate hypewoman <3
> 
> i took some creative liberties with real life things like the various revisions and incarnations of cabaret, hope nobody's too upset lol. for the intents of this fic, im pretending that the only version of perfectly marvelous to ever exist is the 1998 original broadway revival live cast recording of it, since that's the only version i listen to. i'll link it in the end notes. this song is so beautiful it drove me to write so i highly recommend it.
> 
> of course, i do not own blair or roger or any of the content from black monday; that belongs to showtime. the plot of this one shot and words below are the only parts of this i own. i also do not own the lyrics of the song "Perfectly Marvelous;" that belongs to the rightful owners of Cabaret. comments and kudos are much appreciated. i hope you all enjoy!!

Blair fidgeted with his Windsor knot in the mirror, casting an eye back at Roger. “Are you about ready to head out? Our reservation’s in thirty minutes.”

“Have you seen my cufflinks? I swore I just had them,” Roger said, running his hands over the sheets to see if they had lost themselves in the fabric. 

Blair stilled his hands on his collar and spared a glance to his left. “The ones by the TV?”

The sound of ruffling fabric ceased. “Those would be the ones,” Roger said, grabbing them and making quick work of securing them to his wrists. “Thank you, love,” he said as he kissed Blair on the cheek and wrapped his arms around Blair’s waist from behind him.

Blair smiled while he tightened his tie one last time. “You look good. I love this coat on you.”

“I hope you do, since you’re the one who bought it, beautiful,” Roger replied while Blair blushed crimson. It might’ve been Roger’s birthday present, but Blair likes to think of it as a gift to himself, too. He didn’t need Tiff’s keen fashion sense to appreciate a handsome man in a well-fitted suit.

“Are you ready?” Blair asked once his composure had returned.

“Not in the slightest,” Roger said, turning Blair around and kissing him, both hands still resting on Blair’s hips. Blair pulled him closer with his forearms around Roger’s neck, and he relished in the few tender minutes they had left. For them, “ready to go” always meant “ready to go back into the closet.” They couldn’t blame each other for wanting to push that off as much as possible, even when they were going on a date. Well, as close as they could ever get to a date as two married, closeted men. Luckily for them, they were allowed a little leeway, since the public knew well of their business collaboration and strong friendship. Their very, very strong friendship.

As they pulled away, Blair wasn’t ready to go either. He pressed his forehead to Roger’s, enjoying the moment in each other’s space. It would be their last moment to hold each other for the rest of the night; more to the point, it would be their last moment to not have to pretend to be somebody else for their own safety. It was moments like these where they wished the new Italian restaurant down the street wasn’t receiving such glowing reviews, and that they both weren’t so mutually awful at cooking.

Blair forced himself to pull back and reorient his mindset. _Just a business dinner with my good friend Congressman of New York’s Thirteenth District, Roger Harris. We will discuss business things and friendship things and not wish we were kissing each other instead._ Blair stepped back and stuck out a hand. “Mr. Harris.”

Roger’s faux diplomatic smile couldn’t hide the touch of amusement underneath. “Mr. Georgina,” he said, shaking Blair’s hand. It was dorky, but it was their pre-public sighting ritual. Neither of them were superstitious much, but it hadn’t failed them yet. 

Blair grabbed his keys off the counter and resisted the urge to lead Roger by the hand down the hall. 

The drive was uneventful as always, though they cherished their last few moments of treating each other as boyfriends instead of as business associates. There wouldn’t be time for lingering glances at one another when they were keeping an eye out for Page Six reporters and those other vermin. 

They stepped inside and spoke to the hostess. “Reservation for Harris.”

She checked her spreadsheet for a moment, before answering, “Mr. Harris, right this way.”

They were led to a table in one of the more occupied dining rooms. Privacy was tempting, but they couldn’t risk an environment where a busybody would have an easier time focusing on their every move. They always made sure to deny any specific seating requests, choosing to blend in over hiding away, even if all they wanted was to be alone.

They thanked the hostess and their waitress when she arrived to take their orders. Blair insisted on keeping a menu for cheap entertainment purposes.

“I just don’t see how this restaurant can be so well-reviewed when there’s so many typos in the menu. Either the owners here are rich enough to pay off those critics, or the critics wouldn’t know authenticity if it made real Italian cuisine right in front of them,” Blair jokingly complained.

“Definitely getting paid off. No way you’re the only Italian in New York City, and there’s no way there aren’t any Italian critics out there,” Roger joked back. Sitting a table’s length apart made it easier to pretend that this easy conversation was nothing more than friendly banter. At least, they hoped it looked that way.

Against their better judgment, they asked the waitress to leave the bottle as they talked into the night. Alcohol had a magical tendency to erase your worries, even if those worries are there for good reason. Right now, they were just enjoying the moment with each other, where they weren’t pretending, but also weren’t having their lives and reputations torn apart by the media for daring to be themselves. It was a nice balance that only seemed accomplishable at nice restaurants; they almost felt like a normal couple for a moment. Maybe it’s a good thing that the critics are dirty liars (and that neither of them can cook).

Roger set his head in his hand, gazing at Blair with unadulterated adoration. He couldn’t be bothered to care about the phantom presence of the press in that moment; it all seemed so far away when they were both three glasses in and enjoying each other’s company. 

One thing he could be bothered about, however, was the weight sitting in his pocket that he had nearly forgotten about all night. It wasn’t much of a weight, given that it was only two pieces of cardstock, but the experience they guaranteed was weighing heavy on his mind. He hoped Blair was ready for an emotional night.

“I am such an idiot,” Roger said. Before Blair could raise an eyebrow, Roger clarified, “I nearly forgot our surprise.”  
  
“Oh yeah? Got something planned?” Blair asked.

“I got us these,” Roger said, taking the tickets out of his pocket and laying them on the table.

Blair’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit, how did you get these? I thought this show was sold out for weeks,” he exclaimed much too loudly.

“It is, which is why I bought the tickets months ago.”  
  
Blair picked up the tickets, gazing at them with wonder, feeling the edges and running his finger over the text that read _Cabaret_. The revival that had begun its run two years previous had opened to magnificent reviews and had been riding extension after extension ever since. The adoring reviews had caused the tickets to fly out of the box office, however, and true to Blair’s word, they were impossible to get your hands on. “I’ve been dying to see this show since the revival was announced. I had tickets to see it in previews, but work started riding my ass, so I had to give away the tickets,” Blair said, still transfixed, still bewildered. “Thank you, this is the best gift in the world.”

“I’m glad you’re excited. I saw the Cabaret poster on your wall and knew I had to make a date out of it.” 

Blair’s gaze snapped up to Roger’s as they made panicked eye contact. As subtly as they could, they checked over one another’s shoulders to assure that nobody in the vicinity had overheard Roger’s slip up. They looked left, right, but everybody still seated seemed wrapped up in their own conversations, meals, and wine. Both let out a slow, relieved exhale.

 _Sorry_ , Roger mouthed.

 _It’s okay_ , Blair replied. Neither of them touched their glass for the rest of the meal.

“Seriously, thank you. This means the world to me,” Blair said.

Half past seven approached too quickly and not quickly enough all at the same time, according to Blair. After they spent ten minutes insisting on putting their own card down on the check, Blair conceded and allowed Roger to pay for the date he planned, but only if he let Blair add the tip. If he tipped 300% for no reason other than that he wanted to, that was nobody’s business but his own. He was always an extravagant tipper, even when he didn’t have the money to spare, and now he most certainly did. Being in such an excited mood helped, too. He was finally going to hear the songs of his childhood performed live on stage. He could cry, but he knew there would be plenty of time for that in act two.

They walked down the street a platonic distance apart, to ensure that they could resist the urge to brush the backs of their hands together. It was a bare minimum effort though, since Blair was smiling like, well--like he was on a really nice date with his boyfriend and couldn’t hide his excitement. Seeing Blair so happy just made Roger want to tuck him into his side with an arm around his waist. He kept his eyes forward to keep from doing something stupid, like exploding.

When they were finally seated after twenty minutes of ticket scanning and Blair demanding Roger take his credit card away from him before he buys every keychain in his sight, Blair couldn’t believe his eyes. The view was incredible, and not just because of the gorgeous set. “These seats are fantastic,” Blair said to Roger.

“Aren’t they? I’ve seen at least ten shows in this theater; these are the seats to get. Perfect view of the stage, regardless of the staging.”  
  
Blair tried not to think about the probability of him sitting in a seat Corkie’s sat in at least ten times in an identical context. 

The lights dimmed, and chills crawled down Blair’s spine. In an ideal world, Roger’s arm would be around him right now, and he’d be able to feel him vibrating in his chair. 

The opening chords were _beautiful._ The lighting design was _beautiful._ Even the ushers rushing up the aisles were _beautiful._ And the actor playing the Master of Ceremonies, making his dramatic entrance worthy of a Tony Award, Blair could’ve sworn he’d seen him somewhere--

The pieces snapped into place, and Blair gasped loud enough to earn him several glares from the row in front of him. He clapped his hand over his mouth, which had already begun to shake. How could he have forgotten that the actor playing the Emcee was _Joel fucking Grey_ , the very same actor from the 1972 film? The film that he had spent his formative years idolizing and analyzing? He knew, in his mind, that there was a whole ensemble of characters being introduced for the next fifteen minutes, but his eyes were magnetized to Joel Grey in all his ridiculousness and stage presence and brilliance. 

Blair’s attention had never been so rapt. If there was a fire in the building, it would take Roger bridal carrying him out of the theater for him to leave his seat. He hung onto the words of the actors like they were the words of God himself. Experiencing a different interpretation of his childhood classic was spellbinding. He never realized that there were so many new moments for him to laugh and cry and gasp, moments that had never stood out to him so much in the film. He knew “Tomorrow Belongs to Me (Reprise)” was the act one closer, but he still found himself blinking hard when the harsh lights came up for intermission. 

Roger turned to Blair next to him. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Blair couldn’t form any articulate sentences or words in any language. “That… that was… that was Joel Grey. _The_ Joel Grey.”  
  
Roger raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were such a fan.”  
  
“Oh my god, that was really him. That was the real him. I didn’t think he existed in real life.”  
  
Roger laughed.

“You have no idea how many terrible, terrible shows I’ve watched just for him. He was in the film version, it’s probably my favorite performance in any movie ever, and I’m seeing him live. Thirty feet in front of me. In that exact same role from the movie. Oh my god.”

Roger stood to let a couple walk past him through the aisle. Blair stood to meet him in Roger’s personal space, buzzed and bold. He allowed himself to spend no more than a second looking at Roger’s lips. 

“Thank you,” Blair said, even though what he meant was _Thank you I love you You’re the best most thoughtful most wonderful person I’ve ever known_.

Roger smiled, because he knew every word running through Blair’s head just by looking in his eyes. “Of course, Blair.”

The show resumed, and Blair swore he had never cried harder. He was no stranger to tragic theater and film, but _Cabaret_ always managed to cut him down to the bone, down to his soul. The hopeless ending always destroyed him, yet he found himself returning to the splendor and squalor of the Kit Kat Klub again and again. Maybe it was catharsis. Maybe it was self destruction. Maybe it was obsession. Maybe it was all three mixed together to create a perfectly devilish little knife to twist into Blair’s heart. Seeing it live just tripled the impact. He muffled his sobs as much as he could; he didn’t need anybody knowing he had a soft spot for theater. There were enough rumors about him as is.

Roger knew Blair wasn’t sobbing out of pure agony, since this was his favorite show. But it still tore him up inside to see his boyfriend crying next to him. What he wouldn’t give to pull him into his chest. He laced his own fingers together, pretending that he was holding Blair’s, hoping that Blair would feel his intent in whatever way possible, or would at least be comforted by his presence.

At the conclusion of the performance, Blair was still a wreck. He turned to face Roger, who chuckled goodnaturedly. 

“You alright there?” Roger asked. His fingers twitched with the urge to wipe away Blair’s tears.

Blair breathed once, then twice. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just--” He made a vague gesture towards the stage to illustrate the rest of his point.

Roger laughed a bit and led the way to the lobby, then to the street all the way back to the parking lot of the Italian place. Blair put the key in the ignition, fighting the temptation to do what he had wanted to do all night--hug him, kiss him, hold his hand. There would be plenty of time for that as soon as they got home. Somehow the last ten minutes of playing pretend in public were always the hardest.

Blair tried not to rush putting his key in the front door, just in case somebody somewhere was watching. Could never be too careful.

As soon as the door was shut and locked, Blair threw his arms around Roger’s neck and tucked his head into his shoulder. “God, I’ve been waiting forever to do that.”

Roger immediately wrapped one arm around Blair’s waist and placed one hand at the back of his head. He felt Blair shudder against his chest, and pulled back to see Blair crying again. Finally, _finally_ Roger could wipe away his tears. “Been waiting to do this all night, too.” He brought his other hand to Blair’s other cheek. “And this,” he murmured, kissing him until he couldn’t breathe. There was nothing quite like finally being able to take off the mask after hours of suffocating under it.

Ties and jackets discarded, they lost track of time sitting on the couch, talking some, crying some, taking comfort in each other’s presence and touch. Roger carded his fingers through Blair’s hair and they were both in heaven. 

Roger found his gaze fixed on the _Cabaret_ poster that had inspired this whole night. “So, are you a Joel Grey fan, or just a _Cabaret_ fan?”  
  
Blair laughed, exhaustion ringing clearly through his voice. “Both, definitely both,” he said. “The film came out when I was ten, and it was my first brush with theater. I was obsessed, even though I was ten and it was about the Holocaust. My parents thought I was off my rocker,” he trailed off, laughing again with Roger. “It’s what got me into singing.” 

Roger sat up, jostling Blair slightly. “What? I didn’t know you sang!”

“Right, _sang_ , as in past tense. Let me tell you, there’s a reason you don’t know I sing,” Blair said, running a finger down Roger’s arm lazily.

Roger hesitated, stilling his hand in Blair’s hair. He kissed the top of Blair’s head before whispering into his hair, “Can you sing something for me?”

Blair looked up at Roger, a smile growing on his face. “You’re lucky I’m drunk and have showtunes stuck in my head.” He stood up and staggered across the room to the record player. There was no question of the song he was going to put on. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t daydreamed about singing it to Roger, dramatically performing it to his heart’s content. He couldn’t figure out why it made him think of him and Roger, but for some reason, his relationship with Roger was the only thing that ran through his head when he heard the opening monologue. He wondered when he started to make that association. He fished out his well-worn 1966 _Cabaret_ vinyl by the original Broadway cast, given to him by Tiff years ago.

He lined the needle up to the sixth track on the A-side of the record and tossed the pamphlet full of lyrics to Roger. “You’re Cliff for this one, babe.” He didn’t give Roger time to reply before he started in Sally’s part. “I think people are perfectly marvelous, I really do, Cliff. Don't you? I don't think people should have to explain anything. For example, if I should paint my fingernails green--and it just so happens I do paint them green--well, if anyone should ask me why, I say, ‘I think it's pretty! I think It's pretty,‘ I reply.” He inflected his voice with a fake English accent worse than Jill Haworth’s as he gave his all to the monologue he had long since memorized. “So, if anyone should ask about you and me, you have two alternatives: you can either say, ‘Oh, yes, it's true. We're living in delicious sin.’” He laid it on thick, dropping his fake accent to emulate Cliff’s American intonation while he idly thought _Oh, maybe that’s why this song makes me think of Roger and me_. It took effort to pull his brain away from that realization and back to the task at hand. “Or, you can simply tell the truth, and say,”

_"I met this perfectly marvelous girl_

_In this perfectly wonderful place_

_As I lifted a glass_

_To the start of a marvelous year._

_Before I knew she called on the phone,_

_Inviting._

_Next moment I was no longer alone,_

_But sat reciting_

_Some perfectly beautiful verse,_

_In my charming American style._

_How I dazzled her senses_

_Was truly no less than a crime."_

His belt had seen better, less nicotine-filled days, but Sally was never supposed to be a beltress for the ages. He fit just fine into Sally’s raspy alto range; it felt like coming home.

_"Now I've this perfectly marvelous girl_

_In my perfectly beautiful room_

_And we're living together_

_And having a marvelous time."_

Blair finished his part and caught his breath while Roger read off the lyric sheet.

“Sally, I'm afraid this wouldn't work out. You're much too distracting.”

“Distracting? No, inspiring!” His neighbors could cry all they wanted about the nuisance next door disturbing their rest; there was no slowing him down now. 

_"She tells me perfectly marvelous tales_

_Of her thrillingly scandalous life_

_Which I'll probably use_

_As a chapter or two in my book."_

Foregoing his breath, he told Roger emphatically, “I have _so_ many stories, you haven’t even heard half of them, seriously.” He nearly missed his next stanza.

_"And since my stay in Berlin was to force creation,_

_What luck to fall on a fabulous source_

_Of stimulation."_

In all his drunkenness, he couldn’t help himself from grasping the shelf behind him and leaning his full weight against it to do the sexy footwork fullout. When he pushed himself up, he took two long strides to meet a now-standing Roger right in the middle of the room.

_"And perfectly marvelous, too,_

_Is her perfect agreement to be_

_Just as still as a mouse_

_When I'm giving my novel a whirl._

_Yes, I've a highly agreeable life_

_In my perfectly beautiful room_

_With my nearly invisible,_

_Perfectly marvelous, girl."_

Roger checked his lines again. “Sally, I just can't afford... Do you have any money?”

Blair knew this song so well, he could recite these lines in a vegetative state. He scrambled to pull a couple of dollars out of his pocket and said, “A few marks... Six!”

“Oh, God!”

“Oh, please, Cliff, just for a day or two? Please!”

There was a lull in the orchestrations, and their eyes met, caught in the magic of the moment. God, these were the moments they lived for. They didn’t need dates or events; they just needed each other. These quiet moments were the foundation of their relationship, and they were still so electrifying even a year after they had first met. Maybe other couples would have take this for granted by now, but they never would. They couldn’t. They couldn’t imagine needing anything more than this. This lightning in a bottle connection. The sparks crackling between them just from goofing around. 

Roger was so hypnotized by their happiness that he missed his cue. He rushed to start the line while Blair laughed softly.

_"... met... this..._

_Truly remarkable girl_

_In this really incredible town,_

_And she skillfully managed_

_To talk her way into my room."_

Roger was no singer, but that didn’t matter. There was no audience here, just themselves. Their true, authentic selves. They didn’t need to pretend or perform for each other, unless they chose to put on a show. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say that’s really how it happened,” Blair improvised right on cue, making Roger laugh again. If Blair could hear that sound for the rest of his days, he could walk through hell with a smile.

Roger pulled Blair into his arms, reading the last of his lines over Blair’s shoulder. He pressed his free palm against Blair’s back and felt him relax into the touch.

_"I have a terrible feeling I've said_

_A dumb thing._

_Besides, I've only got one narrow bed."_

Blair trailed his fingers down Roger’s side, mimicking Alyson Reed’s blocking. “We'll think of some-thing…”

The tranquil intimacy was shattered by a piercing hihat ringing through the apartment from the record player. A new monologue began, and Blair rushed to untangle himself from Roger’s grasp. He pulled the needle off the record as gently as possible, slightly winded. “That was close,” he said, before clarifying, “It’s a weird song, trust me.”  
  
Roger racked his memory for what comes next in the score. “Is that the song about the three people in a harem?”  
  
“Yep,” Blair said, unable to hold in his laughter.

Roger couldn’t hold back his own laughter, and there they were, laughing at everything and nothing at the same time. There it was again, that magic. That perfect chemistry they had never felt with anybody else before. 

Blair crossed the room to Roger and slotted himself back into Roger’s arms, right where he belonged. “Thank you for everything tonight. I can’t thank you enough.”  
  
Roger pulled Blair closer to him. He was never close enough, it seemed. “No need to thank me.” He kissed the top of Blair’s head again. “I love you. I had a great time, too.”  
  
“I love you, too. And I’m so glad. Now I can talk you into waking up at 4:00 AM on our days off to stand in the rush line with me.”

“Woah, woah, woah, let’s not get hasty, now,” he said, and Blair felt Roger’s laughter resonate through his chest. 

“I’ll make a theater enthusiast out of you yet, Harris.”

“If that means seeing more plays with you, I’m more than willing.”

Blair pulled his head out of Roger’s shoulder for a moment. “Okay, let’s start there. You have to call it a musical unless it’s an actual straight play.”  
  
Roger made a face. “What, as opposed to a gay play?”  
  
Blair laughed, kissing Roger’s collarbone. “Yeah, something like that. I’ll explain in the morning.” He ran his arms up and down Roger’s back for a minute, before leaning up to Roger’s ear and whispering, “You ready to head to bed?”  
  
Roger had been ready for hours. “Yeah, let’s head up.” He lowered his hand, dragging it down Blair’s arm until he could interlace their fingers. 

Blair brought their locked hands to his lips and kissed Roger’s knuckles. He led Roger by the hand while he recovered from his melting heart.

They climbed into bed as drowsiness beckoned them to sleep. They barely had the energy to care about changing their clothes.

Roger reclined and relaxed first, and Blair curled into his side, his right leg hooked over Roger’s waist. Blair then lay his head down to rest on Roger’s chest. The rise and fall of Blair’s back lulled Roger to sleep, while Roger’s slowing heartbeat did the same for Blair.

Their waking moments left something to be desired. By day, they were anxious and hypervigilant, forced to be skeptical of any bystander. But they came alive at night, or whenever else they could catch a moment alone, when they could fully absorb the other’s presence and leave their constant cares behind. It was a relief, and it made sluggishly trudging through public appearances all worth it. These four walls were no prison to them but a haven, an oasis in a desert, asylum away from their war-torn lives.  
  
It was a perfectly marvelous end to a perfectly marvelous night.

**Author's Note:**

> essential listening for those interested:
> 
> the version of perfectly marvelous/two ladies that i referenced for this fic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHMUvAplW3s
> 
> i won't link it here, but there are recordings of various actresses performing this number on stage on youtube (including emma stone!). very iconic highly recommend
> 
> i hope you enjoyed, thank you for reading!


End file.
